Last Suppers
by theherocomplex
Summary: This is the real funeral.


**A/N:** I know I'm about three years late, but I finished season two of Young Justice and had to write something to deal with my feelings about that finale.

For snuffes, without whom this pain would not exist.

* * *

Tomorrow's the funeral.

Her dress is already laid out on the bed: black, knee-length, conservative cut – well, conservative for someone who doesn't think anything of going into full battle in a crop top.

Who _didn't_ think anything of it.

She keeps fighting the past tense. It keeps creeping up on her, sticky, smiling, all too eager to wallow in her grief even as it eats her whole.

 _I want to be alone,_ she said, over and over, until everyone listened and she closed the door on the last of their friends. Her friends, now.

Sometimes, the singular – _It's me, now, not us_ – hurts more than the past tense.

* * *

It's the damn fridge that gets her. Not his parents, who keep sending her forlorn texts, asking her to come over if she needs anything, anything at all; not their – her – dog, who keeps whuffling at the door before curling back up in his chair.

The fridge that's full of food he'll never eat, food she bought for him because his metabolism was the only thing more ridiculous than his pick-up lines, because all food was his favorite food, because she loved him.

 _Loves_ him. That's not something that's ever going to be in the past tense.

There's fresh fruit and three cartons of eggs and so much bacon. Spinach from the farmshare he complained about, pizza crust dough and butter and chocolate syrup and yogurt and stuck to the back wall of the fridge is a post-it note with nothing but a smiley-face and the words _thanks, babe!_ written on it.

This is not how it should have ended; it shouldn't have ended at all. They got out, they were done, and then they went back but they were almost done again, because they had a life and a dog and exams and a full fridge to come home to, but only she came back.

She sits down hard on the floor, the fridge door closing silently behind her, and she cries until her eyes burn and her mouth is dry, but it doesn't change anything.

Wally is gone.

"You idiot," she says, when she finally stops crying. Slowly, she picks herself up, and slowly, she opens the fridge again.

Her tears are quieter now, as she gathers up bread and mayonnaise and lettuce and cheese, and lays it all out on the counter.

 _Time for a snack? You read my mind._

"Not like there's much to read," she says, like he's just in the other room, and cuts a tomato.

* * *

They come over one at a time, and come in without knocking. First M'gann, then Dick, and Conner, and Kaldur.

Once, there were six. Now there's five, and there's plenty of food to go around. M'gann starts baking, sheet after sheet of cookies, chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin and snickerdoodles, wiping her face on her sleeve whenever she puts a new batch in the oven. Dick grills outside, his face stern and old as he cooks hot dogs and burgers. And Kaldur – Kaldur cuts more tomato, and Conner sets the table, hesitating only a little before he sets Wally's place too.

Artemis loves them all so much that she wants to scream. It'd be okay if she did; they almost know, they almost understand. Wally lived in their heads too, and even if the bond faded over the last five years, they still heard him, brash and loud and always, always brave.

 _Too brave,_ she thinks, as Conner pulls out her chair at the table. No one talks as they sit down, not even when she reaches for her fork and bursts into tears again. M'gann covers her mouth with her hand, tears rolling over her cheeks, and Dick rubs his eyes, his mouth trembling.

Still crying, still shaking, Artemis picks up her fork. Across the table, Wally's plate is still empty, not a reproach but a reminder – one she hears in his voice: _It's so easy to lose everything. That's why we do what we do, babe._

Maybe she's a bad hero, because just this once, she wishes he hadn't.

Everything tastes like sawdust and ash, but they eat, slow, methodical bites, chewing and swallowing and mourning. Tomorrow's not the real funeral; this is, eating even though they've got no appetite, because Wally always ate, Wally could always have _just one more bite_ , and so can they.

At the end, there's one slice of pie left – pecan pie, Wally's _favorite_ favorite. She had burned the crust a little, too distracted by Wally to get it out of the oven on time, but he'd eaten most of it anyways, grinning at her with his mouth full.

 _Babe, you rock_.

She pushes the plate to the center of the table, and meets everyone's eyes. After so long, no one needs to ask what she means. They all take turns, eating it slowly, savoring the sweetness that's just starting to cut through the fog of grief.

Everyone's crying by the time Artemis takes the last bite and sets down her fork. She never knows who hugs her first, but that's okay. They're here. They're with her.

 _I miss you_ , she thinks, her stomach aching, and wishes he could still hear her.


End file.
